It's What We Do
by CrossbowDon'tMiss
Summary: Daryl's got the evening off. How he ends up spending it babysitting Lil' Asskicker, he couldn't tell you if you asked. And how he ends up tusslin' with Rick outside's even more of a mystery. All he knows is there's something the matter with Rick, and he means to find out what it is. It's theirs to look after each other; it's just what they do. Part 5 of This...Thing series. Rickyl
1. Chapter 1

There was a time Daryl wouldn't 'a known his ass from his elbow when it came to babies. He'd never had any call to. Wasn't like he was the settlin' down type, and he sure as hell wasn't the kinda person a lady turned to when she needed a baby held for some reason or another.

He was glad for it, too, back then. It was probably stupid – Merle sure as shit woulda given him grief about it if he'd ever found out, but hell, Merle gave him grief about just about everything, the son of a bitch – but babies made him antsy. Little bundles of soft skin and fat, always cryin' out or shitting themselves or throwin' up for no good reason. Couldn't even hold their own heads up for a while, and at least where Daryl grew up, they had a nasty habit of dyin' in the middle of the night.

No, far as Daryl was concerned, there wasn't nothin' good to come of havin' a baby around, and soon as he found out about Lori, he was already bracing himself for a righteous pain in the ass.

He's not real sure when he changed his mind. He was doin' a lot of it back in those days, it seemed like, but he reckons once they lost the farm, that was really when he stopped lookin' at the bump on Lori's belly like the eighth plague of Egypt – or would it've been the eleventh? Hell if he knew – and started actually hopin' they could make it work. 'Cause wouldn't that be somethin'? A big middle finger to that damn virus or whatever the hell it was turnin' the world all to shit, or at least turning it more in that direction than it already was. The world'd always been shit for Daryl; there's just a different shape to it, now.

He busted his ass for that baby, though. Didn't mean nothin'; wasn't looking for nothin' or expecting nothin' in return. He just…wanted to help. Wouldn't 'a felt right knowing there was somethin' he could do to keep them in food and not doin' it. Especially Lori, eatin' for two. She needed the food more'n anybody.

Then when it happened. When everything went to hell in a handbasket because of that bastard inmate, and Lori….

But then there was Lil' Asskicker. He knew that was no name for a baby; he wasn't an idiot. But he'd been calling it that in his head near enough since day one, his own private joke, 'cause in his head, Rick was Asskicker. Doin' what needed doin', kicking all their asses into shape and keeping them that way all winter. There were times he didn't much like it; he'd never been as wild as his brother, but he didn't care for bein' told what to do, neither. He realized pretty quick, though, that Rick was somebody worth listenin' to, and probably the only reason they made it out in more or less one piece.

Way Daryl saw it, it was his turn to shoulder the load a little. Least he could do, and he wasn't loosing anybody else. Wasn't lettin' Rick lose anybody else, neither. Everything he had anymore, he reckoned he owed him and the rest of the group; they coulda just left him. Tossed him aside like everyone else'd done his whole damn life, but they hadn't. Least he could do was find food for the baby. Save one life.

He knew it didn't make up for the ones he couldn't – Lori, T-Dogg, and, far as he knew at the time, Carol – but all he could do was try.

_It's what we do._

The moment he held that baby, the second he had her in his arms, it was like a light switch flickin' on in his head. Everything he thought about babies bein' useless, bein' nasty little shit- and puke-machines, it went right out, because he was holding a goddamn _baby_. Flesh and blood, and much as he tried tellin' himself she wasn't _his_ flesh and blood, it didn't take. He knew right then he'd die for the little bundle in his arms, just as soon as he'd die for anybody else in their group. In a heartbeat.

Nah. Not even that.

He hopes it don't come down to that, though. Maybe it don't scare him as much as it ought to, dying, not after the way he's lived, but it ain't somethin' he's chomping at the bit for, neither. Besides, if he bites it, that's the end of all the good times, too. Times like this.

It's a quiet evening. There aren't many of 'em, since the Woodbury crowd piled in. They got walkers herding at the fences more often than not now days, and there's a lot more mouths to feed. But they've got food for days – at least, three or four of them, which compared to the winter before feels like bein' set for life – and Daryl's not goin' out 'til tomorrow to check the snares. There's still shit to do around the place, the usual day to day cleaning up and cooking and guard, but none of it's Daryl's for the night.

He's not real sure how he ended up like this, though.

He's babysitting. He says he is sometimes to Rick when he's taking newbies on some of their first runs, but this's the genuine article. He's sitting in his cell, two hands full of six-month-old, and she's gurglin' and gagain', and damned if it's not the strangest thing Daryl's laid eyes on. Not bad. Just…strange.

"C'mon," he says, hefting her up onto her little booted feet again. 'Cept there's not much hefting to it; she don't weigh twenty pounds soaking wet. "On yer feet. Ain't gonna be kickin' much ass if you can't even keep upright, are ya?"

She don't say nothin', just gurgles a little more, giggles some, and her pretty little eyes go all bright. She eats like Daryl's the best thing since sliced bread. Or formula or somethin' he guesses, since she ain't really on a lot of real food just yet. But anyhow, she's looking at him with this big old gummy smile, and Daryl can't remember a time he's ever seen anybody look at him like that, 'cept her. No fear, no judgment, no disgust or nothin' like that. The others don't look at him with much of any of that, neither, but there's always something in their eyes. Even Rick gets that look sometimes, like he's not real sure about him. He knows he trusts him, if only 'cause he keeps tellin' him so, and he reckons they do a lot of things together they wouldn't be doing if Rick had a problem with him.

Then again, his folks didn't seem too damn happy with each other, and Daryl's still walking the earth. So who the hell knows?

He shakes his head. That was a different life, way back when, and for all everyone pisses and moans about the walkers and the end of the world, Daryl's not real sure if someone offered him the choice, if he'd choose to go back to it. Might be that's selfish as shit. People like Rick and Hershel and most the folks there are the prison, they had lives before all this. Good ones. Sayin' he wants the world like this just so he don't have to go back the way he was….

Judith all the sudden lets out a little whimper that snaps Daryl out of his head, and he knows that sound, just like he knows the sound of a squirrel in the trees or Rick's boots on the ground. Means she's got it in her little mind to do some hollerin', unless he figures out real quick what she wants, and gives it to her.

"Alright, alright," he says, picking her up and tucking her up against his chest in hopes of staving off the outburst as long as he can while he rises from his crouch on the floor. He's no expert in babies even now, but he's got it down to a few things she usually wants when she gets all bent outta shape. Food, sleep, or a diaper change are usually on the shortlist, except she's started teething lately, so that's a whole different story. Considerin' Beth changed her before she passed her off – Daryl near enough told her she had to, 'cause he'll take on a herd of walkers if he's got to, but changing diapers is somethin' he'll avoid if he can help it – and Daryl just finished feeding her a little while ago, he reckons it's really down to two. And much as he wishes it'd just be sleep, she's drooling somethin' fierce all down her front and his, and she's got her fingers stuck up in her mouth, so he's thinking it's probably those baby teeth Carol says she'll be cutting soon.

He frowns in sympathy. He can't rightly remember it himself, what she's going through, but he's been socked in the teeth a few times more'n he likes to remember, and there ain't nothing fun about a sore mouth.

"Poor Lil' Asskicker." He feels bad for her; he really does, and there's nothing for it but picking up the little rubber ring from the table and sticking it in her mouth. He's just hoping that's enough. "Chew on that a while." As he speaks, he's shifting her around, cradling her in his arm and bouncing her a little 'cause she seems to like it. He jokes with himself it's 'cause she spent so long inside Lori getting all bounced around when they were running like they were, so she's just used to it.

There's a terse moment where she keeps right on whimpering, and Daryl's not real sure what he'll do if she starts out and out crying. It ain't like she's never done it to him before, but he hates it every time she does.

But then her jaws start working around the toy, and her fingers curl around the hard plastic ring at the end. She's still whining a little, but it's a step in the right direction. It's enough to make Daryl smile in relief.

"That better? Huh, Lil' Asskicker?" he whispers, bouncing her gently with the one arm and holding onto her toy with the other just in case she thinks of somethin' more interesting to do with her hands. "That helpin' any?"

He reckons it is, even if she doesn't say so, and that's a relief for the both of them.

"Never could stand to see a pretty girl cry," he says. He swears, he dotes on this little girl like she's a princess, and he knows he's in trouble come time she learns to talk, 'cause he can't hardly imagine any request comin' out of her mouth he wouldn't bend over backwards trying to fill.

That's a problem for another time, though. Right now, she's starting to settle down. She's stopped wriggling around so much and is just sitting there kind of gumming at the rubber toy.

And that's when Daryl hears it: one of those noises he's got down like the sound of his own heartbeat. Boots on concrete, not real hurried, with a particular kinda gait that Daryl knows near as well as his own.

It's Rick.

He can feel his eyes on him, on his back, and Daryl can't rightly say why – it's just this feeling he's got – but he don't turn around. He waits. For what, he can't rightly say either. Maybe for Rick to say somethin'. To come on in like he usually does. To do _something_.

But then he hears those boots again. The walk's a little faster now, a little more deliberate, and Daryl finally turns just in time to see him disappearin' off down the walk like he's got someplace important to be in a hurry.

Daryl don't claim to be much of an expert when it comes to people, but he ain't blind, neither. 'Specially not when it comes to Rick. Rick's the man in control, even if he says he ain't, and Daryl learned early on to get a good read on the big man in the house. It's how he steered clear of at least some of his old man's rougher nights.

He ain't trying to compare them, mind. That back then, that was fear makin' him look out for his old man. And maybe it started out that way with Rick, but it ain't like that anymore. Now he just…knows. It's instinct. And Daryl's instincts are tellin' him there's somethin' up.

Frowning deeper, Daryl tears his eyes from the cell block outside and looks back at Judith. She's settled right down, eyes closed and mouth still workin' over the toy like it's natural as breathing. "What's goin' on with your old man, huh?" he asks the sleeping babe. And just like always, she don't answer. That's just fine.

Daryl intends to find out, though.


	2. Chapter 2

It's dark out when Daryl gets out there. Took him a minute to find somebody to give Judith to – ends up being Carol, and he can't help but think she knows what he's fixin' to do, 'cause she tells him last she saw of Rick, he was headed for the yard – but he's out, now, and making for the yard where Carol says she saw him last.

Doesn't take much looking. Ought to, by all rights. Prison's a big place, even if it don't feel that way most times. Everyone's heading in, though, and Daryl's got good eyes, so when he spots a figure down by the graves, he knows just who it is.

He knows it don't mean nothin' good he's there, neither.

"Son of a bitch," he mutters under his breath. He's already walking, though, cool night breeze nipping at his bare arms. Feels good, now that it's starting to warm up. The prison holds heat like a damn oven.

He don't take any great pains to keep his approach quiet. Matter of fact, he tries makin' a little noise, just out of habit. People 'round there spook easy, and it don't pay to catch someone unawares when they got something sharp or loaded on their hip. It's weird; Daryl's used to light feet and quiet steps. But if it means not getting' on the business end of a weapon, he reckons he'll tough it out.

Rick's got his head down when Daryl gets over to him. he's on his knees in front of a cross Daryl remembers breakin' down a slat for, hands on his laps, curled into fists. And nah, he ain't too good with people, but he knows what he's looking at just fine.

That's Rick's mourning pose. Daryl reckons everybody's got one, some way of standin' or sittin' that makes 'em feel better when they're hurtin'. All this time, Daryl's picked up on most everybody's. Hershel folds his hands under his chin all solemn like, prays a good long while 'til he's worked his way through whatever the hell it is. Beth curls up real tight, hugs her knees or her daddy, one. Carol's legs go out like somebody's kicked her, and she holds her mouth like there's somethin' she don't want bustin' out. And Rick…

Rick does this.

Thing is, Daryl can't think of what he's mournin'. They got food, supplies, nobody's died in weeks; way Daryl sees it, they're doin' pretty damn good. He's wrackin' his brain, but he's pretty well and truly stumped on just what the hell the problem is, so he just gives up guessin'.

"'S fixin' to storm," he tells him, walking up a little ways behind him and holding there. Man needs his space, sure, but he wasn't lying. Clouds're rolling in, blocking out the moon and what's left of the sunlight, and the air feels thick and charged. First cracks of thunder came a few minutes ago, and Daryl reckons it's maybe five, ten minutes before the sky opens up and starts dropping buckets down on their heads. And he ain't real keen on being out in it when it happens. Rick, neither.

Rick don't say nothin', though. Not for a while, and Daryl gives him time, but he don't even raise his head.

He tries again. "Gonna be bad, looks like. Prolly flood the creek. Sure as hell soak you pretty good." He says it all casual-ike. He's talking about the weather, for Christ's sake, 'cause he don't know what else to talk about. This ain't his bag; it's more for Hershel or somebody that knows what they're doing, but they're all back in the prison, and Daryl can't get his feet to move in that direction.

To be honest, he's not real sure he's trying all that hard. Rick's done it for him, ain't he? Turned up when he needed him, got his mind off things. Rick wasn't no more keen on talking than he was, so if he could do it, Daryl figures least he can do was give it a damn shot.

For all the good it's doing. Rick's still sitting there, holding his damn staring match with that cross stickin' out of the ground. Truth is, Daryl ain't even rightly sure which one'll blink first.

Daryl bites back a swear. He ain't any good at this. Hunting, fighting…he knows that. But this ain't in his wheelhouse, and he can't help but wish it was, 'cause dammit, what good is he anyway? If he can't even get a couple words out. He's trying. Shit, he's trying. He just don't know what he's doing.

He's scrambling. Shifting around on his feet, hands hanging useless at his sides, 'cause this ain't a problem they can diz. It's a problem for heads and hearts, and Daryl's not real good at using neither. He needs something to say, and the more time ticks by he don't get it, the more uneasy it makes him. The worse he feels.

There's a flash of lighting, and Daryl counts three seconds before the clap of thunder hits. It's loud and heavy, and Daryl don't like it for what it means, but a part of him's just glad for the break in the silence.

He's even gladder for the bit that follows it.

"You should go inside," Rick says. His voice is so low, Daryl can scarcely hear it over the walkers at the fence and the wind.

It's a relief hearing his voice, but there's somethin' in it makes Daryl's brows scrunch up. "You too," he mutters. His ain't much louder, but he knows Rick hears him just fine.

"Not yet." It's like he's talking in an echo's the only way Daryl knows how to describe it. Like he's miles away, talking, and Daryl's here hearing it. "You go on."

Daryl frowns. Takes a step back – Rick knows what he's doing, and Daryl ain't smart enough to claim he knows better than Rick – but then has a change of heart and takes one forward. He may not know better than Rick on most things, but he knows better'n leaving him out in a storm. And he don't know why, but it ain't just the rain he's worried about Rick drownin' in.

"Nah," he says, takes another step forward so he's just off Rick's shoulder, and squats down, holding out his hand to catch the first few drops of rain. "Think I'll stay out here a while."

He sees Rick's shoulders stiffen up, and there's a part of him thinks maybe he's doin' it wrong, that he should just do what Rick says and head in, 'cause hell if he knows what he's doing.

He tries not to pay it no mind, though. Thinks on what Carol or Hershel'd do, and maybe they'd back off, maybe they wouldn't. But they sure as hell wouldn't leave without sayin' nothin', and since Daryl's got nothin' to say, he reckons he ain't goin' anywhere.

"Daryl." Just his name, but it sounds like a request. Or a warning, one, but for all Dayrl's used to those, it don't feel right. Rick ain't like that, not to him. Not anymore.

He's earned his place. Or else he's earning it.

So, he don't say nothin', but he don't go, neither. The rain's pickin' up. He reckons they've got maybe five minutes 'til it hits full on, but much as he ain't keen on getting' wet, he's not moving 'til Rick's with him.

"Daryl, I said go on inside."

Daryl just nods, props his arm up over his knee, and says after a second, "I heard you." And he don't know why he does it, but he reaches for Rick's shoulder, meaning to turn him around or just show he's there or shit, he don't know. Somethin'. Rick'd do the same for him. Has done, more than once.

Rick shrugs him off, though. Hell, Daryl might just as well have held a lighter to his shoulder, way he jerks back. And maybe Daryl should just leave well enough alone, but he don't. He tries again, and this time, instead of just jerking away, Rick swings around, knocking Daryl's hand clear off him.

There's another clap of thunder, and then somehow, they're all out tussling. Daryl's got Rick by the front of the shirt trying to get a hold of him, and Rick's twisting loose and batting him away. They don't neither of them go for punches; it ain't that kind of tussle. More like wrestling. Grappling or some shit. Daryl's just trying to keep hold of him, and he don't even know why it's so important he does, just that it is and that Rick don't seem to agree. He's wrenching and turning, and Daryl feels the sleeve he's holding rip, but he don't seem to notice any.

"Dammit, Daryl!" Rick snaps, but Daryl keeps on. He gets knocked off, hits the ground on his back, but he gets right back up, near enough tackling Rick. Rick's got some weight on him now, so that's just about what it takes to get the chance to get his arms around him.

It ain't perfect form or nothin'; Daryl never got training outside what he picked up from Merle and just a shit ton of experience. But he manages to get one arm tucked up under Rick's with his hand on the back of his neck in a janky sort of half nelson, and he's got a fistful of Rick's sleeve in the other gripped tight.

"Let go 'a me!"

Daryl wishes it was just his imagination, but his voice sounds awful hitched. Ragged, like he's fixin' to lose it. But Daryl don't let go. He won't, not 'til Rick's done fighting with whatever the hell it is going on in that head of his. If that means he's gotta fight with Daryl to blow off the steam, well hell, 'least he ain't usin' a belt or a broken beer bottle.

'Cept that ain't fair. Rick ain't his old man. Rick ain't Merle or nobody else Rick grew up with. And just a few weeks back, when Daryl cold-clocked him in a fight, he didn't hit back. SO, Daryl just holds tight, lets him thrash around like he needs 'til he's worked it all out. 'Cause he's shit with words, and a walker'd prolly be better company on a good day, never mind a bad one, but this…this, he can do. At least.

The rain's coming down hard, now. 'Course it is, 'cause it ain't bad enough. It's making it harder to hold onto Rick, making his grip slip and slide, and he can't quite get his feet dug into the ground enough to get good footing. He's all covered in mud from the waist down, and Darol'll like as not chew his ear real good come morning, but he don't really give a damn, 'cause right then, that's when Rick takes a turn. For worse or for better, Daryl's got no idea, but he stops twisting around, and Daryl waits a second or two just to be sure before he starts to let up. He goes slow, makes sure he's still got a chance to grab him if he snaps again, but he don't think he will. And somehow, they end up sitting there, bare shoulders touching where Rick's sleeve's ripped half off, nothing but rain and walkers filling the silence.

"We should go in," Rick says after a long moment.

Daryl doesn't budge. "Figured you might have somethin' you needed to get off your chest." It's as close as Daryl can bring himself to askin' if Rick wants to talk, and he can still hear at least three different voices in his in his head asking him when he turned into such a little bitch. He tries ignoring them; they're all dead and gone, but Rick ain't…he ain't. He's there; he's always there, seems like, always offering a hand up or an eye out, or just about anything else Daryl can't hardly recall any 'a those other people sending his way.

Far as Daryl's concerned, that makes him the one that matters.


	3. Chapter 3

They've been out there for a while, just standing there looking at the grave. The mud's eating Daryl's boots it feels like, and if there's a part of Daryl that ain't wet, he don't know it. It's heading towards spring, but it's still chilly, and the rain ain't doing him any favors.

"We can talk inside."

Daryl'd be lying to say he didn't want to take him up on that. But he don't."Why?" is what he says, 'cause he knows an evade when he sees one. He ain't that stupid. "What're we gonna do? Get more wet?" They're both soaked through, all muddied up and lookin' like a couple of hogs gone to town. Least this way, Rick don't got time to sneak off.

And Rick's gotta know he's caught, 'cause he lets out this big old sigh that makes his shoulders dip low against Daryl's. "You know what today is?" he says after while.

Daryl shakes his head. He don't keep up with the days; don't see the point. Let the others keep their tallies and shit.

Rick don't seem to mind that Daryl doesn't answer. Prolly used to it. "Judith's six months old today." He says without looking Daryl's way. Daryl's looking his, though, out of the corner of his eyes, and his face is drawn tighter than a drum. It's the look of a man in pain. And that's when it dawns on him, and he thinks maybe he is that stupid, 'cause it took him this damn long to figure it out.

"Lori." It ain't a question; don't need to be. There're only a few things that can get Rick looking like he does now, and she's one of them.

Rick's head gives a stiff jerk Daryl thinks is supposed to be a nod, but he still don't tear his eyes off the grave. Least it makes sense, now. "Judith's gonna be walkin' soon. Say her first word." He takes a shaky breath. "Lori should be here."

It's times like this Daryl wishes he was a religious man, like Hershel, so's he could say somethin' reassuring, maybe, like how she is there. Like how she's watching over them from a better place. And there're times he is, times he believes there're angels.

Problem is, even if there are angels, Lori ain't one of 'em. She was a good woman; he don't mean anything ill towards her. But she made a lot of mistakes. They all have. Truth be told, if there's a heaven, he's not real sure there's a place in it anymore for people like them. Sure as hell not for people like him.

"You done right by her," is what he says instead, because that, at least, he believes. "Her and Lil' Asskicker." And that's all he says. He ain't got nothin' else. All he knows is Rick's sure as shit better than his old man – that ain't sayin' muck, though – and for all he wishes Lori was still here for Rick and Lil' Asskicker and Carl, they're doin' alright. Better than alright, considrein'.

And there's a part of him he don't like thinking about that knows if Lori was still around…well, a lot'd be different. And he ain't so selfish as to think that he'd rather she was gone, 'cause he don't. Lil' Asskicker and Carl deserve a mom, and Rick never deserved to lose her. But what's done is done. There's no changing the past; all they can do's move forward.

Right then, Daryl's idea of forward's more along the lines of 'inside,' but even once he stands, he don't go anywhere. He puts a hand on his shoulder. Not hard, not heavy, not pushing or pulling. Just there. Like him.

For a good long minute, Rick sits still, sits staring at the cross like it's a living, breathing thing. Like he's expectin' it to jump out and bite him or somethin', or else start a conversation. But just when Daryl's getting started thinking of something to say or do, Rick's hand comes up to close over his. A firm squeeze. Gratitude, not the only way Rick knows how to give it, but near enough to the only way Daryl knows how to take it.

And when the time comes he finally turns his head, Daryl won't bother blaming the water on his face on the rain, 'cause hell, there ain't nothing wrong with cryin'. He's learned that. Everything they've been through, there ain't no shame in it.

He don't say nothing about it, neither, though – just 'cause there's no shame in it don't mean he needs to go calling him out on it; they still got their pride – just turns a little more to hold out his other hand. He catches his eyes as Rick takes it, as he lifts him up onto his feet.

But he keeps going, using his grip on Rick's hand and shoulder to pull him in for a rough sorta not-quite-hug, but somethin' pretty damn close. He claps him on the back, and it ain't gentle or tender or nothing like he reckons something like this should go, but it's firm and solid and _there_, and that's the best Daryl's got to offer him.

It's a relief when he feels Rick's arm curl around his shoulders. And even though they don't stay that way long, and even though it ain't the way he thinks most people woulda done it, he thinks he mighta finally done something right.

When they back off, they don't go all the way. Daryl's still got a hand on Rick's shoulder where he left it, 'cause he reckons he just…well, shit, he don't know. It's just there. Who the hell cares why?

As for Rick, he's got his head turned sideways, and Daryl nearly lets out a laugh when he sees what he's looking at: the tear in his sleeve. "Damn," he says, and it still sounds kinda shaky, but it's better. "I liked this shirt."

"Here, I got it." Seems Daryl's feeling all sorts of helpful tonight.

Rick raises his eyebrow. "That right?"

"Yeah." He proves it, too, grabbing a fistful of the sleeve and a fistful of the shoulder, then gives it one big jerk. There's the wet rip of soggy cloth, and then Daryl's holding the torn sleeve in his hand. Rick's staring at him like he can't believe Daryl just did what he did, but Daryl's got a smile tugging at his lips that spreads on over to Rick's when he reaches out to grab his hand and drops the torn sleeve in it.

He looks down at it, then back up at Daryl, and then he just starts laughing, shaking his head. And damned if that ain't music to Daryl's ears, because he did that. He did that.

Then Rick reaches over to his other sleeve and gives it a tug, and he gets the seams busted alright, but the thing holds on. "Give me a hand?" Rick asks. And Daryl does. He treats Rick's second sleeve to the same as the first, 'til he's standing out there sleeveless same as Daryl.

"Carol'll have both our asses," Daryl mutters, but he still can't quite manage to wipe the stupid grin off his face. He starts to turn, keep from lookin' even more like an idiot, but he don't get more than a step before something cold and wet's slinging around his neck. He starts a second, but then he catches on to what it is.

Rick's got his sleeve slid 'round his neck, and if it was anybody else, Daryl prolly woulda clocked him. As it is, all he musters is a snort that's only halfway to annoyed as he turns around and lets Rick tug him back on in.

"So now you're in a hurry?"

"'S rainin'?" Daryl says bluntly.

Rick just smiles wider. "What're we gonna do?" Daryl recognizes his own words when they're thrown back at him. "Get more wet?" And before Daryl gets a chance to answer, Rick's lips are on his.

Over the wind, Daryl hears a wolf whistle, and when they break the kiss, he tips his head back enough to look over to the guard tower. It's Glen; he can't see him real well, but he knows the outline. Little shit.

He hopes Glen can see well enough to make out the outline of his middle finger.

Huffing, he turns back to Rick, doing his level best to ignore the heat all in his face. And if Rick's smart, he'll do the same. "We done out here?" he says. It don't come out near as cross as he wants it to, but what the hell. Ain't like Rick wouldn't know better anyhow.

It don't escape his notice how Rick's eyes drift back to the cross, but they don't stay there long. He turns back, and with a tug on the sleeve still hanging 'round Daryl's neck – which earns him a smack on the bare arm for his trouble – he starts back for the prison. Daryl falls in just behind.

Rick don't say 'thank you' on the way back. He don't say it as they peel out of their soaked clothes or wash off in the showers. He don't say it when they turn in for the night, or when they wake up come morning.

But then he's headed out. He's got his crossbow slung up over his shoulder, his quiver on the other, fixing to go check the snares before the sun gets too high. Can't risk the meat spoiling in the heat.

He's on his way out of the cell block when he hears it: the little gurgles and giggles he'd like to never stop hearing as he's passing Rick's cell, and he can't help glancing inside.

He's in there, Rick is, sitting on a blanket spread out across the floor, holding his little girl up on her feet and grinning like he's just won the lottery. And Daryl knows he's got to be out soon, but he slows up enough to watch a little. This is the way it's supposed to be. People bein' people for just one goddamn minute at a time before the world goes all to shit again. 'Specially people like Rick.

Smiling just a touch, he pushes off the wall, fixing to start walking again when something catches his eye. _Rick_ catches his eye, and he don't say nothing. But there's something in the way he's looking at Daryl that says plenty, and when he nods, Daryl reads it loud and clear. He nods back, shifts his crossbow up higher on his shoulder, and then he keeps right on walking.

They don't need 'thank you's, and they sure as hell don't need 'you're welcome's. They understand. Daryl didn't used to, but he does now. He's got Rick's back, and Rick's got his, don't matter when or what for, and that ain't changing long as Daryl's got breath in his body. He'll be there, and he knows when the time comes he needs him, Rick'll do the same.

It's just what they do.


End file.
